


The Thought that Counts

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: 31 Days of Ineffables [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas Presents, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21661156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Another day, another dollar, another piece of mail he’d rather not open, and a bizarre present from his demon sitting on his desk.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 31 Days of Ineffables [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560190
Comments: 20
Kudos: 137





	The Thought that Counts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt ‘nutcracker’.

“You’re up early,” Aziraphale remarks when he spots Crowley lounging on his favorite sofa in Aziraphale’s back room, dressed for the day, and with a mug of coffee cradled in his hands. It’s not rare for Crowley to hang out in Aziraphale’s shop. Since they got married, they’re mostly inseparable. And since Aziraphale spends the majority of his time puttering through new arrivals and reorganizing his misprints, that’s where Crowley tends to be as well.

Conscious? Now, that’s a whole other story.

“Am I?” Crowley says with a peculiar tone, peering at Aziraphale over the rim of his cup. Aziraphale side-eyes his husband as he begins to open mail and notices that after several long minutes, Crowley doesn’t venture to take a sip. Which makes Aziraphale suspect that the purpose of the coffee and the mug is to act as an object to hide behind more than anything.

Hide behind and watch his husband.

Since Crowley isn’t one to shy away from openly staring at Aziraphale when he wants to, it means Crowley has done something.

Something he’s waiting for Aziraphale to see.

And as fun as Crowley’s antics can be, it’s too early in the morning for Aziraphale, especially considering the stiff white envelope in his hands that he has yet to open – the one with the shimmery gold writing that he knows is from Gabriel, and probably has nothing but incendiary commentary inside. Even if it’s a simple celestial wage statement, it will include all sorts of deductions earmarked by explanations of a belittling nature.

In short, it’s an official correspondence sent solely as a slight.

But Crowley’s prank isn’t difficult to find. Aziraphale sees it when he tosses the letter onto his desk in an effort to put off opening it for one more day. He sees it, and he sighs, like an overworked father tasked with explaining a concept to a toddler for the umpteenth time.

“Dearest?” he says, picking a strange wood statue up off his desk and turning it over in his hands. To be fair, the statue looks like it was made by a toddler so not too far off the mark. “What in Heaven’s name is this?”

“That, angel, is your Christmas present.” Crowley replies, beaming into his mug.

“I thought I told you I didn’t want a present this year.”

“Nope. You told me you didn’t want me to _buy_ you a present this year. I made that one myself.”

“I can see that,” Aziraphale mutters, giving it another once over, frowning at the streaking paint and the clumps of glue bleeding through the seams. He doesn’t think Crowley should be this bad at arts and crafts. He lived through the Renaissance. And when Aziraphale says lived he means _lived_ as in _it up_ and very much so. Crowley spent significant time with the artistic masters of the era during and after life. But maybe none of that rubbed off on him. Art is a practiced effort, after all. You get out of it what you put into it. If Crowley put nothing into making art, then, well, this statue is the best to be expected. Which also means he didn’t try to miracle away the flaws, make it into something grander (technically) than it is. And that warms Aziraphale’s heart. “May I ask what it is meant to be?” he says with less sarcasm.

“It’s a nutcracker.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows lift. “Aren’t nutcrackers supposed to be bright and colorful soldier types with white beards and clacking mouths?”

“Usually they are, yes.”

“But, forgive me for saying so, this one seems to be …” Aziraphale chuckles as the words pop into his head “… a prattish looking bastard in a grey suit with a constipated expression …” He turns it upside down, startling when a lever falls revealing a square space for deshelling nuts. It’s the placement of said space that has him puzzled “… and the clacking part between his legs?”

“Yup.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it’s Gabriel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen with delight. “Is it now?”

“Yup. Thought it’d be a nice thing for you to take your frustrations out on, seeing as you marching up to the head office and kicking Gabriel where the sun don’t shine isn’t that likely.”

“I see.” Aziraphale looks the nutcracker over again with new eyes - appreciative eyes. He measures its weight with both palms. Aside from the lackluster paint job, it seems sturdy enough. He’s certain it will do its job well.

There’s only one way to find out.

He glances up at Crowley and grins. “Well, I must go out straight away and get myself a bag of …”

Crowley snaps his fingers, miracling a rather large burlap sack of walnuts beside the angel’s desk and grinning like the devil. “Got ya covered.”


End file.
